Book Sixth

Along the roads, with busy pick and spade,
The neighbours gather, and, in cheerful groups,
Repair the way. Some hold the heavy plough,
Which grates and scours along the sandy side,
Or from the rock rebounds, with sudden jerk,
Or caught beneath the deep-laid elm-root, stalls.
Some fill the gullies which the winter made,
And with broad shovels smooth the gravelly ground.
And all, with frequent jest and laugh, pursue
Their labour, making holiday of toil;
And, when the work is done, turn cheerly home,
Well pleased to know the yearly tax is paid.
Now comes the mid-week; and, from various roads,
Behold the frequent chaise, with easy jog,
Taking its tranquil way to yonder grove —
A grove of Lombard poplars, tall and saint-like —
And under which the long, low building stands,
Gray with the touches of a century, —
A house of meditation and of prayer,
The favourite temple of meek-handed Peace.
There meets the calm community of "Friends,"
The old and young, in rigid garb arrayed;
The same their grandsires wore, and, in their hope,
The same their far descendants shall put on,
Remembering their fathers, and their faith,
And simple piety. The ample brim
Shades the white patriarchal hair of age,
And the brown locks of youth. There maidenhood,
Its gay soul glancing from meek bending eyes,
Walks, like the matron, in staid habit dressed.
How beautiful, in those straight hoods of silk,
And scrupulous lawns, which shield their tender necks,
The gentle Rachels, Ruths and Deborahs pass!
There oft the Christian virtues come in name,
And oft in spirit, walking hand in hand —
Hope cheering Faith, with Charity between.
But this, alas! is fading year by year;
From out the Quaker chrysalis are born
The wings which wear the changing hues of fashiou;
And feet, released, forget their ancient thrall,
And for the late constraint, with lighter tread,
Lead through the mazes of the intricate dance,
Imported fresh from foreign capitols.
Their mission is accomplished; and the march
Of this calm band, which, in the van of Peace,
Walked, conquering with forbearance, 'mid reproach,
And jeers of ridicule, is o'er; and now
The few who still surround the saintly tent,
And prop it 'mid the advancements of the time,
May rest upon the memory of the past,
Content with its results. The future comes,
And things, which have been useful in their day,
Are driven into the bygone realms of old,
And leave no vestige of their powerful camps.
The good, which they have wrought, alone survives —
The form in which it came, departs, and this
Is undistinguishably merged at last,
And in the general stream of progress lost.
New orders come, as old ones take their leave;
And "welcome" sounds not oftener than "adieu."

The streams, which late the storm had overcharged,
Have fallen, and left the record of their height
Marked on the woodland trunks; while here and there,
Where obstacles opposed, the muddy drift
Is lodged to dry, and in the summer sun
Become the rest of reptiles, and what else
In such vicinities consort. When comes
The mantled winter, this may be the haunt
Of timid rabbits, and the flocking quail;
Where oft the hunter, with his dog, shall steal
Tracking the knee-deep snow; and shivering here,
The children of the poor shall frequent come,
And tear the tangled drift apart, and bear
The frozen branch to light their dreary hearth.
The stream has fallen; and at the miller's dam,
The neighbours, by good master Ethan called,
Collecting come with crowbar, pick and spade,
And in the breach begin the swift repair.
How like a miracle the progress is
Of cheerful labour, wrought by numerous hands
Working in concert, where the heart and hand
Conspire, well pleased, to do a generous act!
No hope of recompense, which wealth can give,
Sends such alacrity to hands humane,
As doth the sense of doing noble duty.
The day which sees a liberal deed complete,
A fellow creature in misfortune helped,
Falls round the doer, at its evening close,
With gentle airs and loving dews of peace;
Sleep, like an angel, at his pillow sits,
And charms his lids 'gainst ill-intruding dreams.

The week draws near its close, and now the school
Takes wonted holiday. It is a time
The older children are required at home.
The wide-mouthed oven must be set a-roar,
Fired by such light brush and broken rails
As fence and woodland yield. These bring the boys,
Dragging the crackly loads with shouts of glee.
At home the girls, delighted, tend the babe,
And teach it by the sliding chair to walk —
How beautiful to watch their loving care,
The future mother swelling in their breasts!
While those, which date nor yet so young nor old,
Beneath the orchard crowd the little swing,
Or in the barn disturb the secret nest.
Some by the roadside build the mimic house,
With moss and broken ware set out. Meanwhile
The busy matron, o'er the floury tray,
Kneads the huge loaf; or on the snowy board
Rolls the thin crust, and crimps the juicy pie.
Then, from the paddle broad, the pan and dish
Glide grating to the heated cave to bake.
By noon, the ample tables and the shelves
Groan with the weight of swollen loaves, embrowned,
And pies arranged to cool; and all the air
Is redolent with the delicious scent
Which makes the appetite by expectation,
And whets the watery tooth!

From the warm south
The whispering breezes flow; and the calm sky
Is flecked with shadowy vapours, scarcely clouds,
Through which the sun rolls lazily and red.
This master Ethan notes, and takes his rod —
For he has heard, for weeks, the whistling swamps
A welcome signal to the fisher's ear —
And, with the feeling fresh as when a youth,
Makes through the meadow, where the stream invites,
And to the surface gives the tempting bait.
And there the well-pleased grandchild bears the string—
No love of gentle Walton charms his brain;
His art is such as anglers only know
Who from experience learn to trim the hook,
And swing the whip-like line. The bait is rude;
No artificial fly, with golden wing,
Flits o'er the ripple; yet, as oft he throws,
The round chub, whirling on its watery wing,
Darts through the wave, then flutters on the land.
Above, below — they will not mar his sport —
The ploughmen, boisterous from their finished fields
With nets relentless scoop the deepest pools,
And throw the heterogeneous tribes ashore.
Some whose long task detains them through the day,
Treading the furrows, when that eve sets in,
Will come with torch and spear, and wade the stream;
Or at the rude boat's prow, beneath the blaze
Dripping with flaming pitch, with watchful eye
And steady hand direct the sure harpoon.

Another week comes in. The Sabbath past,
The old and young are gathered to the fields.
Some walk the furrow, and let drop the maize,
With measured space between; while some, behind,
With hoe industrious conceal the grain,
And form the little mounds, erelong to sprout
And wave their rustling plumes. This done, behold,
The hideous shape is throned upon the field!
A figure built awry, with outstretched arms,
And, like a drunkard maudlin, in the wind
Flutters its rags, and frights the pilfering crow.

Now blooms the lilac, sweetening all the air;
And by the brook the alder, and the rose,
Propt at the cottage door with careful hands,
Bursts its green bud, and looks abroad for May.
To-morrow, and the smiling month shall come.
To-morrow! what delight is in to-morrow!
What laughter and what music, breathing joy,
Float from the woods and pastures, wavering down
Dropping like echoes through the long to-day,
Where childhood waits with weary expectation!